Paper Wishes (4 page)

 

MAY

Mother's seeds have sprouted. The cucumbers and zucchini were first, but the rest followed quickly. Mother added herb seeds, too. So now I watch over nine little garden mounds. One good thing about no rain: no weeds either.

It takes a lot of work to keep Mother's plants alive. By lunchtime, the sun is already so hot that I have to bring them more water so they don't shrivel up and die.

Mother checks her garden every morning and every night. The rest of the time, she talks to our neighbors and helps Mrs. Soto with her many children.

Father works from morning until night. All day long while Father's work crew builds barracks, a garbage pile grows. It holds leftover scraps—the things that are too bent or too broken or too small for them to use. At the end of the day, the work-crew fathers look over the pile and take things they might like. When they are finished the pile is almost gone.

Father gives the wood and wire and bent nails he finds to Grandfather.

Grandfather spends his days sitting by the open door on one of the chairs he made for us from the scraps. He has a frown on his face and wood or wire in his hands, making little trees and animals. Sometimes his eyes are focused on his hands. But sometimes his eyes stare into the distance. I see him: watching, waiting. I think he is looking for Yujiin, too.

Grandfather does not eat in the mess hall with everyone else. Many of the old people do not. After every meal, either Mother or I take a plate of food to our room for him.

Since Father started working, he almost never joins us at mealtimes. By the time his work crew is finished for the day, it is so late he usually eats with them. It is also late when he comes home—Father and his friends talk until the sky is black and dotted with stars.

One night after Father comes home, Mother says to him, “They need more cooks.” Grandfather is already asleep, but I am still awake and sitting with Mother.

Father does not answer.

“Manami helps with my garden, so I can take this cooking job,” Mother says.

“I don't know,” Father says. “Until Manami is better…”

My neck feels prickly when Father and Mother talk about me as if I am not here.

“I need something to do,” Mother says. “Stuck in this room, I worry. Manami is silent. Father is angry. Ron and Keiko are far away. Maybe if I am busy…”

Father tugged my braid when Mother said my name.

“It will only be for lunch and dinner,” Mother says. Her fingers touch Father's fingers. “Maybe I can make better food than what is served now?”

Father smiles. “I know you can make better food,” he says.

I see Mother and Father holding hands.

So it is settled.

Father will work.

Mother will cook.

Grandfather will sit.

What will I do?

Water plants.

Sit with Grandfather.

Wait for Yujiin.

*   *   *

Kimmi knocks on our door the next day.

“I heard your mother will be working in the mess hall,” she says. “My mother got a job, too. She's going to sew army nets at the factory when it opens next month.”

Kimmi comes inside.

“Hello, Mr. Ishii,” she says to Grandfather.

Grandfather nods.

“Sit,” Kimmi says to me.

She brushes and braids my hair.

“Do you want to talk yet?” she asks.

I want to talk.

But I cannot talk.

“It's okay,” Kimmi says. “Did you hear? They're going to start a school. In Block 7 in some of the barracks. My mother says I have to go. I want to go. And I want you to go, too. Okay? Promise?”

I nod.

Kimmi can chatter about a lot of things for a long time.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Grandfather watching Kimmi and me. I think he almost smiles when Kimmi's chatter becomes so fast that it is hard to understand her.

“Kimmi is a good friend,” Grandfather tells me after she leaves. “She is happy here.”

That is true. But Kimmi is always happy.

“Maybe one day you will be happy here, too,” Grandfather says.

*   *   *

Every day, the prison-village gets more crowded. As soon as Father's work crew builds a block of barracks, newcomers fill them up. Bus after bus after bus.

These newcomers are not like my neighbors from the island. They are from cities, not farms and fishing villages. They are from California, not Washington. And these newcomers don't always get along with my neighbors from the island.

There are so many people that I cannot keep track. I know my neighbors in Block 3. But I don't know these new people in Block 4 or 5 or 15.

Father is happy because there are plans to build a hospital and stores.

Mother is happy because there are plans to save an old apple orchard.

I think about what Kimmi told me. School.

Maybe school will be good.

But then, who will sit with Grandfather?

At least our door faces a road. When it is open, Grandfather can see and hear people and trucks going one way and then another.

But I think Grandfather is like me.

He isn't paying attention to the trucks and people.

He is looking for Yujiin.

He is waiting for Yujiin.

*   *   *

It is late at night, and I am supposed to be sleeping.

But I am not tired.

I open my eyes when someone knocks on our door. Mother says it is impolite to eavesdrop. She says I should shut my ears to the conversations of others.

But it is impossible when we are all living together in one room. And on this night, I am glad I do not always do what Mother says.

The voice I hear is a whisper voice, a familiar voice. It is Ron's voice.

Ron calling to us to open the door.

Father answers, his voice rumbling low.

Mother cries, the sound soft and tinkling.

Grandfather stands and walks toward the door.

I jump from bed and fling myself into my brother's arms.

I wonder if we will leave for the island tonight, or if we will wait until morning.

I wonder if we will take the train and then the boat, or if we will drive in a car that Ron has brought with him.

Before I can stretch my throat to speak, Father pulls me from Ron.

“Why did you come?” he demands.

“I had to come, Father,” Ron says.

“What about school?” Father demands.

“I could not stay there knowing you are here,” Ron says.

“This place is a prison!” Father says. “As long as you stayed in school you were free!”

I begin to understand. Ron has not come to save us. He has not come to take us to the island. He has not come to help me find Yujiin.

“I am glad you have come,” Mother says. “It is better for us to be together.”

“Keiko couldn't,” Ron says. “She—”

“It is okay,” Mother interrupts. “Keiko is not strong enough for this place.”

“No,” Ron says. “Keiko wanted to come, but we thought it is better if one of us is outside. Just in case.”

My throat squeezes shut again, coated by red dirt turned to mud.

My letters, one for Ron and one for Keiko. I thought they were lost. But there was a strong wind that day. Maybe that strong wind blew my letters into the sky, all the way to Indiana.

I remember my message:
Please come.

Not: Please come and take me from this place.

Not: Please come and take me from this place to find Yujiin.

Not: Please come and take me from this place to find Yujiin and then return to the island.

I begin to understand even more.

It is my fault that Yujiin is alone on the mainland, far from the island.

It is my fault that Grandfather has stopped laughing.

Maybe it is even my fault that Ron is with us in this prison-village, far from college.

 

JUNE

Ron and Mother and I eat breakfast together at the mess hall.

“School,” Mother reminds me.

Ron looks happy. He has work, too. He will teach the older children.

“I must hurry,” Ron tells me, “so I won't be able to walk you to school today. Okay?”

Ron does not look at me while he waits for my response, but Mother does.

I nod and Mother says, “Okay,” at the same time.

“School is a good place to talk,” Ron says.

I look at my plate.

“Give her time,” Mother says softly.

Does she think I cannot hear her?

Ron pats my arm. “Talk when you're ready,” he says. “But school is a good place…”

After breakfast, Mother tells me to change into my best dress before we go to school.

There are many students and parents at Block 7. Most, but not all, students have Japanese faces like mine. Signs with grade levels are posted on the buildings. Adults stand near the signs. Adults who are not soldiers or policemen but teachers. Many of these adults also have Japanese faces like mine. There is one adult who watches with unfriendly eyes.

“He is the warden,” Mother whispers to me. “He is in charge of everyone.”

Mother finds the sign that says
Grades 4, 5, and 6
, and we get in line. I am happy to see that Ron's classroom is in this barracks, too. He is standing near a sign that says
Grades 7, 8, and 9
. Three other teachers stand near this barracks, and lines have formed in front of each teacher. The high school students are in another barracks, and so are the younger children.

Finally, I am at the front of my line, and Mother presents me to the teacher. This teacher has a kind face. Her blond hair is twisted around her head. She reaches her hand toward me and smiles. I touch her hand for a second.

I know that I should tell her my name.

“Manami,” Mother says for me.

Then Mother leans close to me. There is a frown on her forehead. Her eyes are sad. “All will be well,” she tells me. Then she leaves.

I go inside with the teacher and the other students. This schoolroom looks like my family's room in Barracks 8. Just the furniture is different. But in this schoolroom there are no desks. Only long benches and one table with a chair.

The teacher tells us to sit down, and I am glad that Kimmi has saved the spot next to her for me.

“Just like the island,” Kimmi says.

I look out the window. If it is just like the island, I would smell salt and fish. I would feel a breeze. Yujiin and Grandfather would have walked me to school. Mrs. Brown would be standing in the front of the room.

It is not just like the island.

The teacher writes her name on a large piece of white butcher paper tacked to the wall.

Miss Rosalie.

I hear my classmates repeat her name. It is beautiful. It reminds me of ocean waves rolling up and down.

Miss Rosalie passes a book around and asks us to read it to her. When Kimmi hands me the book, she whispers, “Read, Manami.”

I like the words, about seeds and trees.

“Can you read this?” Miss Rosalie asks me.

Of course I can read it. I just read it.

“Manami?” Miss Rosalie asks again.

“Manami does not speak,” Kimmi says.

“She cannot speak?” Miss Rosalie asks.

“Not since we came here,” Kimmi says.

Miss Rosalie hands me a slate and a piece of chalk. “Can you write?”

I take the chalk and slate. I draw her name, curling like waves. I draw two eyes and a sharp nose and pointed ears.

“Yujiin,” Kimmi says.

Miss Rosalie passes the book to the next student, and I set my chalk and slate on the bench beside me.

Later, when the other students go outside for recess, Miss Rosalie keeps me inside.

“I would like to be your friend, Manami,” she tells me. “I wonder what you are thinking.”

She points toward the administration buildings. “I live out that way,” she says.

I know the doctor also lives there with his family. And other workers from the outside, too. But the soldiers who are stationed along the barbed-wire fence and in the guard towers live outside the camp.

The workers' block is like our block, with fathers and mothers and children and gardens.

But it is also different from our block.

The children in that block do not have to stay inside a wire fence. They can leave to go shopping or see a movie.

Some of those children go to our school, but the older high school students do not.

They get on a bus to go to a different school. If they wanted to, they could also follow the road to the ocean and get on a ferry and follow the ocean to the island.

For the rest of the morning, I think about this. About the other children who can go outside the fence. The other children who do not have their dogs taken away from them.

When school is dismissed at lunchtime, my classmates laugh and chatter and say goodbye to the teacher.

The boys are in a rush to leave, and they jostle me on the way out. Kimmi gives me a hug goodbye.

Just like on the island.

At the door, Miss Rosalie holds out some paper and a pencil to me.

I look down because I feel too shy to take her gift.

Her hand opens mine and places the paper and pencil in it.

That night, I take a piece of paper and prop it on my cot. It leans against the wall.

I consider drawing Miss Rosalie's name again.

Or drawing ocean waves again.

Or Yujiin's face.

Before I sleep, I put the paper and pencil under the mattress of my cot.

Perhaps I will draw tomorrow.

*   *   *

This is how school goes each day:

Students sit quietly.

Miss Rosalie passes a book around.

Students read from the book.

The book slides past me into the next pair of waiting hands.

Miss Rosalie writes new words on a big piece of paper, and we practice spelling them, taking turns to write the new words over and over on the slates we share. Miss Rosalie says she will bring more when she can.